Going back through old files I found this entry called, “Teddy”. Should have been dated sometime in Winter 2007 or 2008.
In line at the cafe at a local bookstore I found myself observing an old British lady and her middle-aged female companion. I think it was the novelty of her dialect and her turns of speech which captivated me at first. For instance, the way she asked for her “GI coffee”; I guessed it meant no sugar and cream, and as I listened to the young cashier question I found I was right. I smiled at the old lady as she looked up at me with her large dark eyes in her little old head, and she smiled back.
At the sugar counter as we added to our individual drinks she asked me, “Are you by yourself?”
“I am.”
“You may join us if you like.”
I averted my eyes and stirred my drink, pugilistic with myself. “I may do that,” I finally said on a dare.
And so I met “Teddy” (she never liked Edna) and her younger companion Elizabeth. I immediately thought of “Poopy” in Graham Greene’s “May We Borrow Your Husband” but thought I probably should not bring that up so early in a meeting out of fear that Teddy may be familiar with the story and its lascivious bits.
Teddy was delightful in talk, asking boundless questions about me, where I lived, where I worked, if I liked Orem.
“Orem is so much more friendly than Provo.”
“Really?” I asked, wondering if I had seen the difference.
“Yes, though I’m not sure why.”
Then Teddy asked me where I’d lived before Orem, and we agreed that my adopted hometown of Logan was extremely beautiful, and quiet, but too cold in the winter. This brought us to the subject of my schooling, for I had graduated from Utah State in Logan, and I related my experiences in China. Teddy asked how I liked the Chinese people and what I thought of them. I was incapable of making a single generalization, so I ended up making a series of small generalizations, and talking too much, and being very much aware of what I deemed to be a disapproving or skeptical look from behind Elizabeth’s thick glasses.
“It’s amazing how as a child one forms an image and develops an impression that stays with one for one’s whole life. I have always been very fond of the Chinese, for…”
…and Teddy explained how as a military child her father had been stationed in Jamaica, and she had gone to school with black children and some Chinese children as well, and how one day,
“…We were playing at the home of the Chinese ambassador, and the children said, ‘Oh, grandmother is coming, and she would like you to meet her.’
“In came this very regal Chinese woman, very small, you know, with tiny bound feet. And she wore the most gorgeous silk dress I had ever seen, with pearls and jewels which I had never seen. We had seashell necklaces, but never had I seen such beautiful clothes. I would have not been more impressed had I met the Queen, you know.
“And this Chinese grandmother, took me into her room–she did not speak English, no, nothing as silly as that, but she explained in Chinese–and of course the children translated for her–that her bed was very special, and that when she died she would be sent back to China on her bed, and given a proper Chinese burial in Chinese soil. This made such an impression on me that I have always been very fond of Chinese people.
“And you know the Nanking massacre as well. When that happened my heart went out to the Chinese, and for that reason I have always been averse to the Japanese for their butchery. Simply horrible.
“And the Death March as well. They were inhuman.”
I nodded solemnly, but in truth unreliable, and neither agreeing nor disagreeing, but retreating from forgotten or ignored history lessons.
“I say that, but I suppose we are all humans, and we all want the same things. I’m a Catholic, you know, and after The War we had German POWs in the town where I lived, not the fierce NAZIs , no, just the soldiers. And we allowed them to go to church with us in December, and I saw these soldiers lined up in the church, and I was full of hatred, I thought, ‘You evil men. If I could get my hands on you, I would peel each of your heads off, and knock them against the pews!’ In church! But then the service began, and the German soldiers all sang a German Christmas carol, what is that German Christmas carol?”
“Silent Night?” Elizabeth asked.
“Silent… No. Well, perhaps.”
“O Tannebaum”, I thought. “It’s Stille Nacht in German” I suggested.
“Yes, so it is. “Silent Night”. When they sang I heard how beautiful their voices were, and I wondered how people so evil could sing so lovely. And as they finished the song I saw that running down each of the soldiers’ cheeks were tears, and I knew they were thinking of their homes in Germany, and how Christmas might be celebrated there, and it made me think of the British boys held in Germany, and I wondered if they too were singing Silent Night together, and crying, hardened soldiers crying because it was Christmas, and they were far from home, and they could not help themselves.
“I must tell you it was this experience that made me understand that people are people no matter where you go, and it is for this reason that I believe very strongly that children should be mixed together as early as possible, not put in private schools and kept away from people with different backgrounds, seeing only other affluent children, and looking down their noses at everything that is not the same as they have learned it should be. People are not good or bad as a group, they are good or bad as individuals.”
Elizabeth and I agreed with this heartily. I aimed at explaining that was one thing that living in China had taught me: that there are a some true, indomitable human pleasures, desires, and comforts that do not depend upon wealth or modern conveniences, that only when we see real people in love, or angry, or sad in spite of having money or being poor do we recognize our commonalities. That was my aim, but I perambulated around the idea, and stumbled several times.
Teddy, however, was an conversational artist. “And another incident, when I was a young girl after the war nothing was ever delivered, and we had to carry everything from place to place, so I was bringing two bags of groceries home, big bags, one in each hand, and a German soldier came and did not speak English, but he motioned that I should walk and he would carry the bags for me to my house. So he took the bags and walked 3 feet behind me, and though I was 16 I was not a ravishing creature by any means, no I was very skinny at 16. But when we arrived home he handed me the bag, clicked his heels, and saluted me, and bowed, and so of course I bowed as well. And I learned from that that manners are very important, and people can get along so much better if we are simply polite to each other.
“Young man, you must learn from this to beware of old women, and never accept their invitations, or you will be trapped by their conversation, for old people need people to talk to more than the young, for we know we will die. And it is so nice to meet new people and hear different stories, and different aspects from different histories.”
I thought of how as a young person my social network is being added to, node upon node, and so many of my connections tend to be peers, and people of the same generation, for we are in the very lively, engaged, and ambitious phase of our life, and we must establish ourselves and our reputation; through this we extend our network and become known. But as one ruins toward the grave, one’s parents, one’s spouse, one’s friends and colleagues–each by each, node by node, they are annihilated, and it seems impossible to make new connections at the same pace as they are lost.
Making the connections must seem so much work, I thought, for in our pop culture of eternal youth and artificial deathlessness old people are the ultimate Other. I believe ageism is really more pervasive than sexism and racism combined, and so old people are avoided or ignored. I should be no one to talk, for I am probably no better, and am considered antisocial to boot.
But I could not articulate this, nor would I even try without risking the appearance of condescension. Then I was acutely aware of how much appearances meant to me, and that they were still significant to Elizabeth , but they were utterly meaningless to Teddy. Teddy had reached out to me, regardless of my youth, my appearance. And while it was clear that Elizabeth would have liked to have me challenged on some of the points or postures, Teddy accepted what I said openly and completely–even the meanings that came out wrong or were misspoken as I had striven to make my thinking known, Teddy listened to, nodded, and smiled.
“I find that the more people I meet, the more I find that despite our dissimilarities, we are much the same. ” She concluded. “The similarities we share are not only more numerous, they are vastly more important.”
Teddy had been fidgeting with her cup for some minutes now without drinking from it, and I knew it was empty. She glanced at my cup, long empty, and knew it was a good time to end.
“I’ve quite enjoyed our conversation.” Teddy said. “But I really must get Elizabeth back to her home and her children.”
We thanked each other politely, and she commended me on my manners. It is difficult for me to socialize, and so I felt I deserved her commendation; I denied it all the same, thinking that too would be seen as polite. Moments later they had disappeared, and I was again untied to set to drift without oars, to write, or think, or read, and not converse.
William Merrit Chase’s vivid and sensual beauties, including The White Rose, where the woman seems to float above the ground on an eerily dark background. This portrait surprised Scott and I as it was nearly life-size, but done in pastel.
Antonio Rizzi captures sensuality and the frustrating and inescapable power of woman to control distance in A Woman Reading.
What is the story behind William Hamilton’s The Wolves Descending from the Alps? The comatose belle? The anthropomorphic lupines? The monstrous, feral expression of the hero? The purely frightened, entrapped horse? Does this refer to “Winter” from The Seasons by James Thomson?
In the center is a father who has no pupils. His lips turn to teeth as one distances one’s self from the work. Scott suggested there may be a face emerging from his torso.
The father’s role is central, but to the left is an elderly figure, a grandmother who looks on with wisdom and experience, perhaps even judgement.
To the father’s right is a woman, probably the mother, who’s eyes look heavenward–an expression that struck me as being as helpless as it was hopeful.
The child on the left is clearly frightened as the father’s hand rests on his shoulder. His small shape seems to grow larger at a distance, even gaining a halo. His figure is dark and brackish, and Chris suggested his expression and pose is like an evil cherub.
The child on the right looks off the canvas, perhaps to the future. His bright colors suggest hope, yet the mule he rids on is braying, almost as if he senses the phantasmagoria that pervades the painting.
Indeed, with perhaps an exception for the father’s vacant eyes the mule most suggests death, as his snout quickly becomes skeletal.
